


Interlude XX

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [170]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Murder, Brightlingsea, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Murder, Plans, Retirement, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 06:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: An Angel of Thursday prepares for battle, Mr. Bacchus Holmes goes a step too far (again), and Sherlock aims to kill.....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majestic_duck (majesticduxk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



Sachiel looked around him, and tried not to be disdainful. He really tried; humanity had achieved a lot in a relatively short time, so one had to forgive it the occasional minor aberration. Like this place, Brightlingsea. This was what humans called a 'resort', presumably as in their phrase 'the last resort'. 

He had to admit – and he did it grudgingly – that there were some good things about taking human form. Even as an angel he did not fully understand the mechanics of it, but there was no doubt that the substance called 'coffee' did something most pleasurable to the vessel that he was currently inhabiting, and which, most unusually, had been created specially for him. Then again, human bodies capable of hosting a seraph were few and far between.

He picked up his newspaper and read it, making sure to use his mojo to deflect any curiosity from those who worked at this station as to why the man in the ugly brown coat had been sat on the platform bench for over an hour already, and had not even moved upon the arrival and departure of the train from Wivenhoe. He had a job to do, and it really was a matter of life and death. 

He would save one person's life, and help to bring about another person's death.


	2. Chapter 2

_[Begin narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_

My dearest friend, the love of my life, the magnificent Doctor John Watson. Despite the shabby ways in which I had far too often treated him over the years, despite my twice abandoning him and once making him think that I was dead, he has loved me through it all, showing himself to be the most righteous and wonderful of men. There was nothing that I would not have done for him. I knew that I would even have killed for him.

Now, I was called upon to do just that.

+~+~+

John's erstwhile readers, whom he regarded fondly even if some of them were borderline insane, were always quick to point out inconsistencies in his stories, and complain when he hinted at cases without then publishing full details of them, something he has mostly abstained from doing in this final and definitive collection of our adventures together. They were also adept at spotting variations in our caseload, although these were usually due to a sudden preponderance of minor and uninteresting cases rather than diplomatically sensitive matters and/or those where publication would have hurt an innocent party. One such gap was the period of nearly a year between the case of the retired colourman at the end of 'Ninety-Seven, and the affair of the dancing men some eleven months later. Only one 'additional' case occurred during that time, right at the beginning of 'Ninety-Eight, the matter that my friend has since documented concerning the murder of the two 'Coptic Patriarchs'.

In the original (1921) “Elementary”, John had explained away these missing months with vague references to cases that could not be published, including one important one for the government. The truth was rather different and, for me personally, terrifying. I took on no cases during that time because I had come perilously close to losing the love of my life. Perhaps in view of the poor way in which I had so often treated John in the past despite the love that he had always shown me, this was the Fates' way of reminding me that he could be taken from me, not just _vice versa_. It was a painful if probably well deserved lesson.

Mathematically it may seem unlikely that, London apart, we should ever return to the same place for more than one case. Yet the far coast of the county of Essex seemed to be one of those few areas that broke this rule, as we had already had two cases there – the Futility Island matter back in 'Eighty-Eight and last year's excursion to the Hundred of Dengie for the 'killing' of ex-president Murillo. Not forgetting, of course, two years back when John had taken me back to Futility after the acid attack at my former brother Ranulph's instigation, and subsequently devoted himself to my care and recovery. As I have said, I was unworthy of such devotion, and evidently some deity had now decided that it was time to remind me of that fact. 

At the end of our case on Futility, readers will remember that the villainous Mr. Alistair Campbell had been captured, and had subsequently been sentenced to a long time in jail. Henriksen later told me that someone had relayed my part in his capture to him, and he had sworn vengeance on me, saying he would 'kill Holmes through that damned scribe of his'. As he was safely locked up at Her Majesty's pleasure I did not overly worry, and put the matter out of my mind. Several dozen people wanted me dead, and unlike Campbell none of them were locked up. Yet.

Futility Island's seclusion was such that only two places of any size could be seen from its shores. One, of course, was its mainland 'connection', the town of West Mersea on its tidal island, whilst the other was the Cinque Port 'limb' of Brightlingsea, a little way to the north. It was to that place that, barely a week after our return from Devonshire, John had to travel. His friend Sir Peter Greenwood's eldest son Connor, to whom John had stood godfather, had married an Essex girl, and they were expecting their first child any day now; Sir Peter had come down with an untimely case of the winter flu, so John, generous as ever, had offered to stand in. He left for the small port one snowy winter's morning, and I was missing him even as he walked out of the door (he walked rather stiffly; I had been more than thorough in my 'farewells'!).

I of course had wanted to go with him, but Bacchus had called round the day before and requested that I stay in London as there was a political crisis brewing, and he might need my assistance. He called round again that same morning, only a couple of hours after John had left, and I belatedly realized that he was holding something back from me. I am not a violent man, but when he told me that Mr. Alistair Campbell had escaped from gaol the day before and was reported to be still in London, I lost my temper. I demanded to know if there really was a political crisis on hand, or if he had just deliberately held me back because he disliked John, and hoped that Mr. Campbell might kill him. His silence condemned him, and I told him to leave before I hurt him. I would deal with him later!

+~+~+

John had a considerable start on me, but then he was not particularly hurrying. I fairly flew out of the house, and stopped only to send a telegram ahead to secure me a special train, before securing a cab to Liverpool Street Station. The Great Eastern Railway Company was for once mercifully efficient, and I only had to wait a few minutes after my arrival at the great terminus before I was heading out in pursuit. I could only pray that I was not too late. 

To get to Brightlingsea John would, as it happened, have to change twice, first at Colchester and then at nearby Wivenhoe. The timetables suggested that I might catch him at the latter station, and as my train raced through the Essex countryside, I prayed to whatever gods might be listening for aid. The stations continued to flash by, and I could only pace the carriage and worry.

Most annoyingly, we had to wait for a few minutes for an express to clear the up line at Colchester, and by the time that I reached the junction at Wivenhoe, the Brightlingsea train had gone. I could only grind my teeth impatiently; the line was single-track, which meant that the special could not access it until John's train had reached the terminus. It was full six miles by road according to Bradshaw, so I could but wait. Finally however we pulled into the rather grand station, and I almost fell out of my carriage in my haste. The stationmaster was waiting to greet me, and my heart sank.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“Yes?” I growled. He stepped back from me in alarm.

“We, uh, got your telegram”, he said nervously. “I'm afraid that someone stabbed your friend, Doctor Watson. He survived, though his attacker got away; we think he high-tailed it into the town.....”

I almost shoved him out of the way to hurry past, to where two men were carrying a stretcher. And on it was John, looking deathly pale. His eyes were unfocussed, but for a moment he caught my own and looked surprised.

“You came back”, he muttered, before passing out.

I was going to _kill_ Bacchus!

+~+~+

In the chaos that followed, I totally forgot to ask John what he meant by 'came back'. It would be some five years before it would be explained to me, coincidentally not many miles from this very spot.

+~+~+

The reports of what had actually happened were confused. The stationmaster had identified Mr. Campbell as having been at the station and having brought a platform ticket; presumably, he had thought, to meet someone off the train. John had not of course had his gun with him, and I would have presumed that Mr. Campbell was armed, but according to witnesses he had fled the carriage just after the attack, mercifully leaving the man that I loved alive. I did not understand it, but I had more pressing matters to worry about that solving the crime just now, namely bringing justice upon his attacker. A permanent justice this time.

I also had to safeguard John from further danger, and to ensure that he had the very best medical treatment my money could buy. For the next three days, the doctors advised keeping him sedated for as long as possible, so that his battered body could have time to recover, and on the third day they consented to my having him moved. They were probably more than a little surprised that I organized this for the middle of the night, having telegraphed Miss Charlotta Bradbury for the services of one of her best agents to find and keep tabs on Mr. Campbell. Incredibly, Bacchus sent me a message me offering _his_ assistance; I was too angry to reply.

Once I was sure that John was sleeping, I had him spirited away to a top hospital near London, and it so pained me that I had to remain in the town to maintain the illusion that he was still here. A second of Miss Bradbury's agents then made sure to leak a certain London address to Mr. Campbell, and once I knew that he had received it, I made my way back to the capital, stopping only to call in at my mate's bedside. Seeing him broken like that, because of me, was too much, and I wept openly in the small room before pulling myself together and leaving. I had to be ready for the events of that night. 

+~+~+

The house that I had chosen was that of a close family friend who lived in Hanover Square, a quiet area between Regent Street and Oxford Street. He was enjoying a night at Gaylord's latest hotel at my expense, and when I arrived my agents had already fitted up a small room for my needs, complete with all the paraphernalia that a recovering patients needs but probably does not really want. They had even arranged a small automatic pump fed by a pipe from the next room, so that the heap underneath the bedclothes rose and fell periodically as if by someone's breathing. Mercifully it was a warm March day, so there was a good reason to leave a small window in the upstairs room slightly open. The balcony was easily accessible to someone of Mr. Campbell's athletic abilities, I reckoned.

I made a show of leaving the house once it was dark, as I was sure that Mr. Campbell was watching outside and waiting for my departure. The cab took me quickly round to the back of the house and I re-entered; I was sure my quarry would wait a few moments just to be sure that I was gone. 

In the event it was a full half-hour before I heard someone fiddling at the window, and a long, lithe figure slipped through and into the room. I could see the glint of steel in the moonlight – the moon was still nearly full – as he moved across to the heaped figure in the bed. I allowed myself a smirk from behind the screen.

My quarry was clearly suspicious at the large mass beneath the covers, but he crept steadily nearer until, with a swift move, he removed all the blankets in a single move. It was a pity that his back was to me at the time, because I would have quite liked to have seen the look of shock in his eyes, although the one I got when he heard me move round the screen behind him was quite satisfactory. Then he snorted.

“Should've known it was a set-up”, he sneered. “So back to jail for me, eh? Don't you worry, Mr. Holmes. They can't keep Al Campbell inside for ever. And when I do get out, I'll be coming for you first!”

I smiled darkly and levelled my gun at him. His bluster vanished as if it had never been, and his eyes widened in terror.

“You're... you're not gonna.....”

I did. Most definitely, I did.

+~+~+

A mystery donor had arranged an impromptu fireworks display for the children of the square that night, so one extra report was not noticed. There was also some delicious irony in that the fisherman, who was recompensed more than adequately to dispose of a large wooden crate that night, normally plied his trade along the Essex coast. Possibly Mr. Campbell's remains might end up somewhere near Futility Island again, as his body finally served a useful purpose in its time polluting this earth – as fish food.

+~+~+

John's recovery from the attack was slow and tortuous, and I suffered terribly if deservedly all through that spring as I faced the prospect that I might still lose him, despite his doctor's reassurances. I was never more grateful to his friend Sir Peter Greenwood, who first sent one of his colleagues and, once he had recovered, called in himself several times each day in addition to his own heavy workload, reassuring me that things were progressing well. During that time I took on no cases at all, spending my time sitting on the chair next to his bed. Or in his bed, although Sir Peter, smiling far too knowingly, proscribed only limited sexual activity for him, which of course did not improve his mood when he was conscious. I just had to be more inventive.....

This long period of enforced inactivity was also the first time in my life that I gave serious thought to my own mortality. The nature of my work had for a long time made the likelihood of me reaching old bones seem remote, but I would be forty-four later that year, and my love had passed forty-six shortly before the attack. Whilst I still felt a moral obligation to use my talents for the people of my country, I was also of the opinion that John and I deserved the right to retire one day and enjoy our golden years together, and that that day might not now be too far into the future. It was at this time that I recalled John's rapture at the beauty of the Sussex Downs back in the Blue Carbuncle Case, and slowly but surely I came to a decision. 

Fifty. I would quit in nineteen hundred and four, on my fiftieth birthday. We would retire to a small cottage on the Downs, where I could raise bees and we could live as man and... man, far away from the world and all its demands. Bacchus, God damn him, could make his apology to me by ensuring our anonymity, though I doubted that I could ever truly forgive what he had done. Had I lost John as a result, Mr. Alistair Campbell would have had company on his final journey!

Six more years. I gently ran my hand over the chest of the slumbering man in the bed next to me, and he rumbled his approval, edging instinctively closer to me as he slept.

Six more years. It seemed a hellishly long time, but I could wait. For the man beside me, I would wait forever. And in the meantime, I could plot my revenge against a certain lounge-lizard of a brother.....

_[End narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_


End file.
